<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Dead Man Walking by antithestral</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28594437">Dead Man Walking</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/antithestral/pseuds/antithestral'>antithestral</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>DCU, DCU (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, M/M, let's play a game of how much porn can I reasonably stuff inside this plot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:59:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,333</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28594437</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/antithestral/pseuds/antithestral</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <span class="small">[AU: Supernatural]</span>
</p><p> </p><p>But just before Bruce could walk away, Jordan grabbed his wrist. </p><p>"<em>What</em>," Bruce hissed, wondering if Jordan had seen something. But he was- he was still just <em>staring</em> at Bruce, his hand still locked around Bruce's wrist, and "Hal, what," he said, quieter, rougher.</p><p>“The job’s done. The succubus— it's dead,” Hal rasped.</p><p>“Yes…?”</p><p>“You'll be heading out tomorrow. I don’t know… I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”</p><p>“Hal…?”</p><p>“If you're going to punch me, you should do it now,” Hal whispered all in a rush, and then pulled him close, and— and <em>kissed </em>him.</p><hr/><p> </p><p>[Or, the one in which they don't have superpowers, and there aren't any aliens, but they save they save the world anyway — and also, fall in love.]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hal Jordan/Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>108</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>uhhh, for those of you who clicked on my fic earlier this morning - sorry! i tried to post the second chapter, and managed. to delete the fic.  the whole fic.<br/>which. fine. it's completely fine. i was going to do a whole flashback thing, but i dont care now, i'm putting the 'flashback' at the start, it'll be.... fine.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was the height of summer, and there was something killing the men in Pickering, New Mexico, population 3,048 and falling. </p><p>Bruce had driven down Main Street on a Monday morning, the sweltering summer heat rising up off the asphalt in shimmering desert mirages, his windows up and the air-conditioning on high, a stack of print-outs of recent crime scene reports littering the passenger seat, financial records hacked from a credit agency, the radio tuned to the local police frequency. </p><p>He pulled up at the sheriff's station, a rambling, one-storey building, clad in an inoffensive sandstone. The cruisers parked outside were shiny and new, courtesy, most likely, of generously awarded Homeland Security grants. He parked and got out, noting the two civilian vehicles, probably belonging to the administrative staff members - and the dusty, black Accord parked closest to the gate with rental company tags. Someone from out of town.</p><p>He pulled on the cheap suit jacket as he got out, and stepped into the blinding summer heat, an instant sweat breaking out over his brow. A welcoming burst of crisp, icy air-conditioning greeted him when he entered the station, the interior done up in shiny laminate flooring, the desks all white and chrome, the lighting a blue-white fluorescent glare. It could've been an insurance agency he’d walked into, or a dentist’s office - there would have been nearly no way to tell. </p><p>When he held up his FBI badge, the receptionist smiled at him — “Looks like y’all might be having some trouble sorting out who gets what job, Special Agent,” she’d said, cryptically. </p><p>Bruce realized the problem when he was shown into the sheriff’s office - only to find another ‘FBI agent’ already in place. </p><p>“Agent Malone,” the sheriff said to him, smiling in that oily, jocular fashion of small-town cops trying to play it cool with the feds, “I suppose you know Agent Ferris.”</p><p>Bruce had swallowed a sigh. The hunting community wasn’t exactly large - and they’d run into each other a few times. It never ended well. </p><p>But it was ‘Ferris’ who spoke up first. </p><p>“Sure I know him,” Hal Jordan had said smoothly, rising up out of his seat and shaking Bruce’s hand, his grip firm and cool, his eyes assessing in that particular way of his, that made all the hair stand up on the back of Bruce’s neck, and something curl up hotly in his chest. “We’re old friends, isn’t that right, Bruce?”</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>They talked to the girl at the front desk some more on their way out - the sheriff had proven to be predictably useless. </p><p>"Y'all could try Bluebird's for rooms, if you're sticking around awhile," the receptionist told them. "Delilah runs the place, she's got a soft spot for law enforcement types, she'll probably rent to you for cheap. ANyway, the only other place is Casa Bianca on the other side of town, and that's no place for decent folks."</p><p>"Rents by the hour, does it?" Jordan asked, smiling that easy surfer-boy smile, California-gorgeous. </p><p>She shrugged airily. "I'm sure I don't know, Agent," she said with a toss of her hair, and, hell, you had to like a girl like that.</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>But they ended up at Casa Bianca anyway; half the motel had in fact been converted into a strip club, and if Bruce went looking, he was sure he’d find a path worn thin between the club’s exit and the motel’s front desk - a perfectly clever little enterprise that the local sheriff's department was clearly happy to ignore, probably in exchange for a little gratis time with the dancers.</p><p>The strip joint was also, incidentally, the only thing all the dead men had in common - Jordan had had that part of the puzzle figured already. The perfect hunting ground for your average succubus. </p><p>"Man, I love my job," he had breathed, when they finally made their way through the crush at the door into the club. AC/DC was thumping from the speakers, which had never struck Bruce as the kind of music you could dance to, except the dancers seemed to be doing a fair job of it.</p><p>"Not that I have any problem with a plan that involves naked women and alcohol," he continued, in apparent good cheer, "but succubi can look like whatever they want to. It’s not shapeshifting, right, it’s a mirage, all projected straight into your head, but— still. How the hell are we supposed to pick the leech out from this lot?”</p><p>"You missed something else the victims had in common," Bruce replied. They chose a booth in the corner - he had to lean in close to make himself heard over the blaring 90s rock. Hal smelled like sweat and Old Spice, a fresh clean smell, and Bruce swallowed quickly before continuing, "the first victim worked at a slaughterhouse. The second was a Gulf War vet, four tours out. The third ran an MMA club. You know how a succubus feeds?"</p><p>"She- Yeah, she whips you up into a frenzy, right?" Hal replied, frowning. There was maybe an inch of space between them; Bruce could feel the warm rush of air against his ear as Hal spoke. He curled his nails into his thigh, digging in through the denim. "She feeds on the, I don't know, the psychic energy lust creates?"</p><p>"So she's targeting men capable of violence," Bruce said. He had to shift in even closer to answer Hal - for a moment, he wondered what the two of them looked like, to the rest of the club: two men in a dark booth, whispering quietly to each other, ignoring the entertainment entirely. He shoved the thought out of his mind. "Predators. Men capable of... a greater depth of rage than the ordinary. Men from whom she might be able to feed deeper, more potently, than your average Joe. Maybe she can sense it; succubi have some limited telepathic ability, especially when it comes to finding their victims."</p><p>Hal stared at him, obviously blinkered. "Hang the fuck on, so the reason you brought us here is... we're <em>bait</em>?"</p><p>Bruce flashed him a smirk.</p><p>"You complete son of a bitch! <em>What the hell!"</em></p><p>"<em>Scared</em>, Jordan?" Bruce murmured insinuatingly. The fun was finally coming into <em>his</em> evening - Hal was glaring at him, magnificently pissed off, clearly battling the urge to hit him in the face rather a lot.</p><p>"Oh, up yours, jackass," he finally muttered. "What makes you think the leech will come for us anyway?"</p><p>"Don't be dim, Jordan,” Bruce said, keeping his mouth close to Jordan’s ear so they couldn’t be overheard. Jordan's mouth was right <em>there, </em>only inches away. It was making his head spin, making blood rush to his groin despite himself. He struggled to calm his breathing, to look unruffled, to curve his mouth in a lazy, arrogant, smirk. “Do you really think there's anything in this room more dangerous than <em>us</em>?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>But their bait hooked nothing that night. In retrospect, it made sense. The succubus had been feeding precisely once every fortnight. By that schedule, she would strike again in three days time.</p><p>So they stayed on in town, ditching the Fed suits for the most part, making a few desultory inquiries to keep up the charade, whiling away the time, grabbing long lunches and lingering at dinner. It was as much of a vacation as either of them ever took, and even the sweltering desert heat wasn't enough to curb the quiet, bizarre sense of contentment that had saturated Bruce, in that little speck of a town, tucked away deep in the endless sprawl of the Mojave.</p><p>Off the job, Jordan was surprisingly easy to talk to. They traded anecdotes of their weirder hunts - Jordan was an animated storyteller, and Bruce found he could listen to the man talk for hours, the time slipping away from him like water running out between cupped fingers. Hunting stories turned into philosophy and politics; Bruce discovered they agreed on more than he would have expected, and where they didn't, it was less a matter of divergent ideologies and more a matter of prioritization. They found a watering hole the second day, an old quarry that had filled up in a summer shower. Hal stripped and dove in almost instantly, hollering for Bruce to <em>come in too, the water’s great </em>- Bruce had relented in a daze, drawn in by the sight of Hal, all gleaming, naked skin, golden in the sunshine, feeling that clawing hungry urge rise up, to push Hal against something, find out what that lean, smooth body felt under his hands, taste the curve of his throat, the dip of his spine, the edge of his mouth, before he fought it down, stripping to nothing before he dove in smoothly, the water gone the exact temperature of bathwater half an hour in.</p><p>For those first two nights, Bruce went to bed feeling a little bemused: that tight, urgent feeling of heat that Hal elicited had never gone away, but there was also now this - the realization that he'd never really enjoyed himself so much in... a long time.</p><p>The third evening, they arrived at the club separately, and took seats away from one another, Bruce at the bar, Hal deep in a booth, to maximize the probability that at least one of them would be approached. About an hour into that exercise, Bruce was pulled away by a phone call - it was Dick, in Nevada, hunting what he was absolutely certain was ‘a whole ass fire breathing dragon, Bruce! I can’t kill a dragon, Bruce! I can’t pull a sword from stone!’ It needed eight minutes of continuous yelling for Dick to get his damn story straight and figure out that it couldn’t be a dragon, it was likely just an afrit, and anyone who couldn’t handle a piddling little flame of the Eternal Black Fire probably needed to find another job anyway - but yes, fine, of course, he would drive all the bloody way up to Nevada just to make extra special <em>super</em> sure it totally <em>definitely</em> wasn’t a dragon. </p><p>Kids. </p><p>He turned around to go back into the club, - he’d have to tell Hal he was heading out, that Hal would have to manage the succubus himself, and was that <em>disappointment </em>he was feeling, at leaving <em>Hal Jordan, </em>Jesus God, he had to <em>get away from here </em>- when he saw a pair of twined figures step out of the club, kissing deeply. Most likely, they were headed towards the motel. Instinctively, Bruce stepped back into the shadows, to allow them to pass. It took him a second to realize that one of those figures was— was <em>grey</em>, and hideously deformed, naked like a corpse that had been decaying underwater for months, a monstrous rattling rasp issuing from the vicinity of its throat, and the person that it was kissing was— was <em>Hal—</em></p><p>Bruce started to speak, fingers curling tightly around the smooth wooden hilt of the Kurdish blade. There was no way for Bruce to stake the succubus with the shivs they’d made — from an evergreen branch, soaked in the blood of a virgin nun — without endangering Hal, but a knife that could kill demons could almost certainly do some serious damage to any monster. </p><p>Bruce didn’t have the chance to do anything though, because Hal’s mouth kissed a path down the creature’s rotting, grey shoulder—</p><p>and then he looked up—</p><p>and caught Bruce’s eye—</p><p>and <em>winked—</em></p><p>right before his arm drew back, hand low and grip tight, and he was smashing the stake directly into the succubus’ ribcage in a savage upthrust. A great squealing wail filled the air, before the sound died off just as abruptly. The succubus thudded limply to the ground, its body convulsing, brackish blood pooling slowly in its open, gaping maw, as it choked and, slowly, horribly, died. </p><p>“Take care of the body, would you?” Hal said dryly, when the creature finally went still. “I think I need to go wash my mouth out. With <em>bleach</em>.”</p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Bruce hacked the body into parts and dug shallow graves in a few anonymous patches of desert before going back to the club where Hal was waiting. They drove back in quiet. By unspoken consent, even tonight, they kept to their usual course: Jordan’s door would come first, it was closer to the road, and then Bruce would walk down to his own room, alone. By that third night, he already had come to the necessary decision: once he and Jordan parted ways, he was going to get himself seriously and comprehensively fucked, first thing, to drive Hal Jordan out of his mind. The only alternative was propositioning the man himself, and that wasn't a level of humiliation Bruce was prepared to go through.</p><p>But the decision went out of his hands - when, just before Bruce could walk away, Jordan grabbed his wrist. </p><p>"What," Bruce hissed, wondering if Jordan'd seen something but he was- he was still just staring at Bruce, his hand still locked around Bruce's wrist, and "Hal, what," he said, quieter, rougher.</p><p>“The job’s done,” Hal rasped.</p><p>“Yes…?”</p><p>“I don’t know… I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”</p><p>“Hal…?”</p><p>"If you're going to punch me, you should do it now," Hal whispered all in a rush, and then his free hand was cupping Bruce's jaw, and he was leaning in, brushing his lips against Bruce's slackened mouth, again and then again, sparks skittering down his chest with every brief moment of contact. Bruce caught on a full three seconds later with a shuddering groan, grabbing the back of Hal's skull with a vicious hand, jaw practically unhinging as he kissed Hal, fucking his mouth, ravenous for the taste of him, the feel of his body, solid and warm and right there- </p><p>Hal pulled him into the room, kicking the door shut behind him, plunging the space into darkness once more. And then he was on Bruce, and they made their way to the bed, each of them clearly desperate, fumbling through belt buckles and zips and buttons, Hal muffling his laughter into Bruce’s shoulder when the other man stumbled over absolutely nothing and backwards onto the shitty, squeaking mattress. </p><p>It was as if the writhing ache in his chest had expanded somehow to consume his whole body, a yawning abyss of desire, a conflagration that would burn him alive. Bruce wanted, needed, something to hold himself in check, wanted to take Hal in small careful touches, wanted quiet precision, wanted to slowly take him apart— </p><p>But it was impossible, with the man pinned, spread, gasping underneath him, like diving into rapids to take a sip of water when Bruce pinned his wrists to the headboard and Hal— Hal <em>let </em>him, a dizzying vertiginous sensation. </p><p>It was only Hal who could quiet him then, who ran those broad, sure hands down his spine, “Easy, easy, love,” holding him, “we have all night, Bruce, we can take as long as you want,” like a promise, fingers threading through his sweat-dampened hair, “I’m right here, look at me, baby, I’m right here,” kisses pressed to his closed eyelids, like a benediction, a piercing note of grace - and Bruce felt it steal through him, that surety, and he let Hal pull him in, coax his body into the first orgasm, and then a second, and then once more, when he was sure he had nothing left to give, right at the edge of pain, every nerve stretched thin and taut and bright, surrendered into the care of another. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bruce wasn’t sure when they finally drifted into sleep, but they woke together - Hal rousing slowly into wakefulness, warm, rumpled, that self-satisfied Cheshire smile stealing across his face when he saw Bruce, a smile that had always provoked Bruce into a killing rage - now it just made him want to kiss Hal some more. </p><p>It was possible, Bruce was beginning to realize, that it always had made him want to kiss Hal Jordan some more. </p><p>“Hey there, gorgeous,” Hal murmured, and then snickered like a child at whatever expression Bruce made, before popping up on an elbow and kissing the expression soundly off of his face. </p><p>Bruce had a personal theory about one-night stands that pretty much boiled down to: the second night was always better. It had all of the thrill but none of the hesitancy; careful touches became bolder, bodies moved together easier, it ironed out the missteps, it made the rush sweeter. </p><p>And it <em>was</em>, God it was, Hal Jordan in the dawnlight, that glorious, sleep warmed body, arching up underneath his. Bruce had pretty much crawled down that beautiful chest, lips dragging against his sternum, his rippling abdomen, had pinned his hips to the mattress and swallowed his cock in a single motion, hungry for every way they could touch, every way he could make Hal groan his name in that particular, hoarse register. He’d never much understood the appeal of going down on other men - but he was learning rapidly now: Hal’s hand fisting in his hair made his own cock jump, the sharp <em>ah, god, that’s it, baby </em>he muttered made him desperately grind his hips down into the bed, the heavy, pulsing weight of his cock against his tongue, <em>don’t stop fuck Bruce, Bruce, please— </em>and his balls tightened in a solid, lightning rush. Afterwards, he let Hal move, let him fuck his mouth in jerky upward thrusts, feeling so generously satisfied that Hal’s cock battering at the back of his throat just made him warm and smug, swallowing as he came, sucking him gently through to the end. </p><p>Bruce fell back into the pillows breathlessly, some long minutes later, every muscle transmuted into a continuous hum of pleasurable exhaustion. </p><p>“So you know,” Hal said, “I haven’t got another job lined up, and I got a little time, and this cabin up in Vermont my buddy lets me borrow…”</p><p>Bruce felt his chest contract painfully. “I- I can’t,” he said, forcing himself to open his eyes.</p><p>“RIght,” Hal said immediately. His expression didn’t flicker. “Of course, don’t worry about it.”</p><p>“It’s my son,” Bruce added, and Jesus holy Christ was he justifying himself? To Hal Jordan? “He’s up in Vegas, hunting an afrit, except the boy is convinced the damn thing is a dragon, and…”</p><p>“You have a kid?” Hal said, sounding a little stunned.</p><p>Bruce shrugged. It was as good a descriptor as any. “You might know him. Dick Grayson.”</p><p>“The <em>hunter </em>Dick Grayson? He’s your <em>son</em>?” Hal asked, and then after a beat,<em> “Oh my god, of </em>course <em>he’s your son.”</em></p><p>Bruce smiled, unaccountably pleased, getting out of bed and starting to pull on his clothes. </p><p>“You don’t look old enough to be his father though,” Hal continued, while Bruce hunted down his shirt, and his left sock. </p><p>“I’m not, biologically. His family got ripped through by a pack of ghouls; the boy was the only survivor. I couldn’t hand him off to CPS, they’d think he was nuts, and then it’s years and years of morbid child psychologists trying to puzzle out the implications of a boy who talks about his ‘missing’ family being cannibalized.”</p><p>“So you took him in,” Hal concluded. There was an odd note in his voice, almost wondering. Bruce glanced at him, but his expression was murky. Unreadable. He tugged his shoes on.</p><p>“In a manner of speaking.” He fished out his motel keys from his jeans pocket - his duffel was still there, and his spare gun with a full clip tucked into the safe. He’d need to pick those up before he headed out. He paused at the door, a hand on the knob, and realized he’d been… delaying. He didn’t want to go.</p><p>He didn’t…</p><p>He wanted <em>this</em>, this room, flooded in desert sunlight. </p><p>He wanted the cabin in Vermont, and long, endless nights.</p><p>He wanted that smile, and those sure hands, and he wanted <em>Hal— </em>he wanted blindly, desperately, his throat was dry with it, his hand was started to shake—</p><p>“Thanks for the assist,” he said, over his shoulder. </p><p>“Sure thing,” Hal replied, sprawling back in bed, hunting out the remote from the nightstand drawer, flipping it on.</p><p>The local news channel blared on, after a faltering rush of static -- Bruce pushed open the door, and a wave of fresh summer heat rolled in. </p><p>“I’ll see you when I see you,” Bruce said quietly. </p><p>Hal mock-saluted him with the remote, eyes never leaving the TV screen, and Bruce left, pulling the door shut behind him, feeling, with perfect, resilient clarity, like something had ripped the heart out of his chest.</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>It was a half-day’s drive to Vegas, and by the time he’d crossed into Arizona, Bruce’s restlessness had amped up to the point that he found himself dialling Alfred.</p><p>He picked up on the fourth ring, sounding as thoroughly unruffled as ever - until Bruce said hello, and that quiet warmth saturated his voice, and almost instantly settled the worst of his nerves.</p><p>“A succubus, you say,” Alfred murmured with interest. “A nasty creature, rather difficult to take care of, especially considering the strength of their telepathic power.”</p><p>“Not really,” Bruce said. “I have to assume this one was operating at half-power or something, it wasn’t camouflaged at all.”</p><p>There was a speaking pause on the other end, and then, very delicately, Alfred asked, “You could see it’s… true form?”</p><p>“In horrifying detail,” Bruce replied dryly.</p><p>“I… see. You said you weren’t working this case alone? Who was the other hunter?”</p><p>Bruce frowned. Bloody hell, the man was sharp. “Hal Jordan,” he said shortly.</p><p>“Ah. Interesting.”</p><p>“Alfred…. I just spent the evening dismembering a corpse and burying it in the desert, barely got any sleep, and I’ve been on the road for six—” he checked the clock, “<em>—seven</em> hours, because Dick has an overactive imagination. For my sanity’s sake, please pretend like we’ve finished the part where I ask a million questions, and you pretend you haven’t the answers. What do you know that I don’t?”</p><p>“Barely got any sleep?” Alfred murmured pointedly.</p><p>“<em>Alfred</em>.”</p><p>“Very well, no need to get snippy,” Alfred said, sotto voce. “The only thing that protects from a succubus’ telepathy is the protection of true love’s touch.” He paused for effect. “You do understand, seeing as how you and Mr. Jordan were <em>both </em>protected…”</p><p>“Alfr— I… I don’t understand.”</p><p>“Most assuredly, you do. Now, this false-dragon will keep for a time. You know you must turn your car around at once, don’t you?”</p><p>“You’re saying he—” Bruce trailed off.</p><p>“I certainly am. Turn your car around, now.”</p><p>“Yes,” Bruce whispered, heart pounding, “I— yes.”</p><p>Hal had been able to see the succubus’ true form, but that wasn’t surprising: Bruce wanted- Bruce had been— He’d been nine-tenths of the way in love with Hal Jordan for a long time now.</p><p>But <em>Bruce </em>had been able to see the succubus too, and Hal had touched him, a hundred innocuous ways, during those endless golden summer days they had spent together, and maybe he was wrong, maybe he was hoping too hard, but he couldn’t stop holding on to it, onto the thought that there was a chance— a chance, however slim, that, that Hal— that <em>Hal— </em>loved him too.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When he reached Pickering, night had fallen once more. He reached the front desk of the Bluebird Motel a little past midnight, waking an irritable night clerk who informed him that the other Fed had checked out too. The maintenance guy ambled in, halfway through their conversation. </p><p>“You lookin’ for that other agent?” he asked, eyes gleaming.</p><p>Bruce passed him a ten.</p><p>“Yeah, it’s comin’ back to me,” he mumbled, keeping his palm flat and open upwards.</p><p>“Make it come to you <em>faster</em>,” Bruce growled, and watched him pale with some pleasure.</p><p>“RIght, he, um— I saw him headin’ past South Street, you know. Over to that club, Bianca’s. Hey, how come you left? Ain’t the case still wide open?”</p><p>“Can’t comment about an ongoing investigation,” Bruce snapped, striding back to his car, a burble of uncertain confusion humming in his chest. Why would Hal go back to the strip club?</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Another twenty bucks greasing the palm of the front desk kid at Casa Bianca’s netted him Hal’s room number, and that burble of confusion was growing. Something sick was catching in his throat; with every step that sick feeling grew. </p><p>Casa Bianca was built like your standard, run-of-the-mill motel: awning that run the length of the building, a parking space in front of every door, big windows shaded by two layers of curtain, a sheer white set for privacy during the day, covered by a dark, checkered red. You walked past the room window before you got to the door, and so Bruce found Hal’s window first, the sheer set of curtains pulled open, a solitary lamp burning on the inside. There was a faint sound of laughter, Hal’s laughter, and then Bruce saw him, on the bed, on top of a shadowy figure, a— they shifted, and yes, there she was, a woman, dark and lovely, her hand twisted into his, on top of her chest, just holding on as he stared into her eyes—</p><p>Bile rose sharp and quick in Bruce’s chest; he stumbled back, like he could burn away that image of Hal, with a stranger, if he put enough space between them. He didn’t remember making it to his car, but he did, coming out of his daze what felt like hours later, driving on sheer instinct, eating up miles on the I-40 in a mindless fugue.</p><p>He snapped out of it only when his phone buzzed with a rapid-fire burst of messages.</p><p>They were all from Dick.<br/>&gt;&gt;SORRY I DIDNT TELL U<br/>&gt;&gt;JASON CAME HUNTING WITH ME<br/>&gt;&gt;IT ISNT A DRAGON<br/>&gt;&gt;I DONT KNOW WHAT IT IS<br/>&gt;&gt;I THINK IT HAS HIM<br/>&gt;&gt;I THINK ITS TAKEN JASON</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A week later, Jason had been rescued from the very brink of hell, a ritual to sacrifice the king of the crossroads had been averted, a crack in the fabric of reality that would have pulled Eve herself from the eternal graveyard of the gods had been sealed, a potential apocalypse had been successfully stopped in its tracks - </p><p>- and Bruce was dead.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jordan spotted him within fifteen seconds of stepping into the bar. </p><p>It wasn’t that Bruce was particularly conspicuous - his booth was caught in shadow, deep in the back, and he’d been nursing his single, shitty pint of lager long enough that the waitresses had pretty much given up on him entirely. But the table let him put his back to a wall, and gave him clear line of sight to both the exits. It was the kind of seat that any hunter worth his salt would have chosen, especially when on the job, and Jordan might’ve been any number of largely distasteful things - but he wasn’t a bad hunter. </p><p>Bruce watched with mounting resignation as Jordan ordered a drink and gestured for a waitress to bring it over to his booth, before making his way there, that old familiar glitter in his eyes, that dangerous smirk tucked away in the corner of his beautiful mouth. Bruce took a deep, punishing swig of alcohol, as if he could numb his throat, cool the heated awareness prickling his skin. </p><p>“So the stories are true,” Jordan said, hands in his pockets in that way that dragged his jeans low and tight, flashing half an inch of golden skin just above the waistline. “You really made it back.”</p><p>It wasn’t the kind of comment that invited a response, so Bruce didn’t bother replying. </p><p>“Bruce Wayne,” Jordan went on in that low murmur, sliding into the booth next to him, sprawling lazily, one arm thrown carelessly over the squeaky naugahyde seatback, “so bad Hell itself spat him back out.”</p><p>The waitress arrived with Jordan’s drink, a whiskey sour, rocks gleaming in the uncertain light. “I’ll drink to that,” he said, lifting up his glass in a mocking toast.</p><p>Bruce smiled meanly. “Hardly a compliment. You’d drink to anything.”</p><p>But Jordan’s smile got lazier, wider, and god damn it, acknowledging the man was like throwing chum in the water, except the thing that got shredded to pieces was <em>Bruce</em>, and why oh why had he opened his bloody mouth. ...probably because his self control pretty much evaporated like so much nothing every time he got within six feet of the man, so no surprise there. </p><p>“Well,” Jordan said softly, “that’s true enough.” He cocked his head curiously to the side. Predatory. Cat-like. “So what say you and I find something to <em>really</em> drink to?”</p><p>Bruce stared at him, for an interminable second, heat rocketing up his spine like wildfire - before he wrenched his gaze away. It didn’t help that he hadn’t gotten laid in the four months since he’d been brought back to life. He drank some more of his foul beer. </p><p>“Aren’t you here on a job,” Bruce managed, in some desperation, and Hal gave another one of those low, rolling chuckles, and said, “Okay, sure, yeah, I am,” like he was taking <em>pity</em> on Bruce, of all the bloody humiliating things. “Electric storms, a dead psychic in town, and an entire cornfield died overnight. I can read the writing on the wall, same as anybody else.”</p><p>“Demonic omens.”</p><p>“Demonic omens,” Jordan agreed, “ding ding ding, give the man his prize. How long have you been in town anyway?”</p><p>“Two days,” Bruce replied unthinkingly. </p><p>Jordan paused. Arched an eyebrow. “The psychic was killed last night. How come you got here early?”</p><p>Fuck. Shit. “I… had some help.”</p><p>“Sure,” Jordan said, in that casual, uninflected tone. “Must be <em>some</em> kind of help, if it can tell you about demonic activity even before it happens.”</p><p>“Yes,” Bruce agreed grimly. “It is.”</p><p>—-</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>They paid their tabs together, and headed out. Lennon’s Crossing was a tiny speck on the map, caught deep in the rural red belt that curled around Philly, and there was only one motel in town, walking distance from the bar. Bruce spotted Jordan’s ride, a souped up acid green ‘02 Camaro, with dirty white racing stripes and in desperate need of a paint job. Jordan kept it looking dingy though - that, Bruce knew, was part of the camouflage. Jordan’s car’s primary function was to <em>not</em> look like the kind of ride that had a V12 under the hood.</p><p>Jordan stepped in time with Bruce, letting him set the pace as they ambled down the long line of doors at the motel. Bruce stopped at number eight. “This is me,” he said, feeling unaccountably awkward.</p><p>“Great,” Jordan said. He draped himself along the jamb, looking for all the world like there was nowhere else he’d rather be. Bruce fumbled the key before getting it into the lock. The door swung open on a slow, mournful creak. Bruce shivered in the slight, rolling breeze, the cold sliding up his shirt like icy fingertips. Jordan hadn’t moved an inch.</p><p>“So what’s it gonna be, Wayne?” he said, softly. “You gonna invite me in?”</p><p>And then the lights to Bruce’s ostensibly empty motel room flipped on, and suddenly, <em>he</em> was there, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the mattress, blue-eyed and bushy-tailed, blinking owlishly at the two of them, and oh <em>god</em>, he’d just been <em>gay-propositioned</em> in front of—</p><p>---</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Jordan jerked away from the door frame like he’d been fucking electrocuted. “Who—” His eyes flicked between the two men, clearly noting that Bruce hadn’t gone for his gun.</p><p>“Wayne,” Hal said stiffly. “I’m-- I didn’t know you had… company.”</p><p>“I <em>don’t</em>,” Bruce muttered, fatalistic. Of course this happened. Just his luck. He stepped into the room, waving irritably between the two of them. “Kal, this is Hal Jordan. He’s a hunter. Jordan, this is Kal-El. He’s…” Bruce managed to choke out the words, “an angel of the Lord.”</p><p>“...”</p><p>“Hal?”</p><p>“...”</p><p>“My god, I think we broke him. Hal?”</p><p>“He’s a WHAT?!”</p><p>----</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for reading! this fic is complete and will be updated reguarly.<br/>subscribe for updates, and if you liked it, please remember to hit kudos &lt;3</p><p>for more unfiltered me, come join me on tumblr @pasdecoeur!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>